As a barefoot boy in short trousers living with his great uncle in Higgins Land, duppy stories were nightly entertainment. The adults loved telling them, and the boy believed every word.

When a neighbor known as Brother John died in Alexandria Hospital, something unsettling happened.

That same night, all the dogs in the area began barking wildly.

The boy thought he heard groaning exactly like the sounds Brother John made in the days before his death.

But Brother John’s body was still at the hospital.

Terrified, the boy wrapped himself tightly in his bedsheet and covered his ears, convinced the sounds were real.

His fear was fueled by his great uncle’s favorite story, one about walking to a shop at night and encountering a woman in white who had no head and no feet.

To make matters worse, the household always ran out of kerosene oil after dark.

When the adults called out, “One ah unu boys go a Coolie Mack shop go buy oil,” no one moved until the leather belt buckle shook.

Faced with the choice between a duppy or the belt, the boys ran.

In those days, they said, duppies were the only thing to fear. There were no guns. No gangs. Just shadows, stories, and imagination that felt dangerously real.